A Gentle Death: Part 8 - California Memorial
By Barbara O'Neil Ross
“Barb, you can play the tape and have a party here if you'd like to.” It's the gentle voice of Sue Randall, my dear friend and college roommate. We've been discussing a way to bring the February memorial service to John's and my West Coast friends. “I'll even let you plaster my dining room walls with the wonderful photos you exhibited in the Church”.
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It is March and I am in my hotel in San Francisco listening to the recording. The sound is rather faint. Will people be able to hear? I'm feeling nervous about how this will all transpire with no ministerial figure there to officiate. I will have to make some kind of introduction. Public speaking unnerves me.
Sunday arrives. I feel the thrill of seeing so many loving friends mixed with some fear that this event won't be what I've imagined. Sue's living room is arranged with twenty chairs surrounding a coffee table where we place the newly rented high-tech recorder. People have been introduced and have found their seats, and I know it's time for me to act. How I wish John were here to do this - he relished a chance to address a crowd. I feel emotionally vulnerable in this room where we are all facing each other. I'd like to creep into a pew. But I manage to get to the center of the room and welcome people and say a few words before switching on the recorder.
The crowd is so attentive, straining to hear each word. We're just getting to the part where the splendid baritone student who lives with us will sing “Jerusalem,” when Sue's neighbor slams out of the house next door loudly whistling “It Had to be You.” There is a flicker of amusement around the room.
I have handed out the program from the original service with the music printed in it. When it's time for the “Navy Hymn,” twenty brave souls stand and try to sing along with the tape. It is painfully off-key but a noble effort. Part way through, Sue's daughter's parakeet, who is caged nearby in the kitchen, joins in with a piercing vocal accompaniment that nearly drowns out our quavering voices.
We're mid-way into the recording now and David, the minister, is reading some of the poignant tributes to John. I begin to hear a strange noise. It sounds like deep breathing. No, I think it's actually snoring. Unobtrusively I begin to study each person in the circle, trying to determine the source of this distracting rhythmic rumble. I watch chests rise and fall. If it's someone snoring, why doesn't his neighbor provide a nudging elbow? The sun is streaming in the window toward me making it hard to read the backlit faces of people sitting across the room. I squint. It couldn't be that handsome woodworker sitting on the couch or the alert woman next to him, yet that seems to be the direction of the sound. It might be John's decrepit lawyer friend, but I think his eyes are open. The volume of the noise increases. We're getting to the end of the service and people are exchanging puzzled looks. The trumpets blast off the ending, “When the Saints Go Marching In.” Our crowd creaks to its feet.
Out from deep under the table at the far side of the couch lumbers the Randalls' ancient and still drowsy black Labrador Retriever.
[Barbara O'Neil Ross and John H. Ross]
